The Rising Fire
by Juan Ophus
Summary: A man on a mission. A big guy. Worlds will collide and destinies will come to light as Special Agent Bill Wilson takes on a job far bigger than any he's ever done so far. A loving homage to the biggest film since the silent era. Bill WilsonXBaneXextrasupersecretidentity!Selina KyleXDr PavelXThe Masketta ManXBrother (sort of). Also maybe some guy called bateman or something.


The Rising Fire

Bill Wilson squinted across the rolling plains, nervously fiddling with his belt. It had been over an hour since he'd arranged the pickup with his contact, and while Bill hadn't much to be proud of these past years he prided himself on being punctual. _Focus_, he told himself, _get a hold of yourself god dammit. You've got some of Uncle Sam's jarheads and you've got a post with the most American agency on planet Earth. You're protecting freedom from bad guys like this eggheaded sunovagun, and you've got no reason to fidget like you just transferred from middle management. You're here to represent the CIA, so you better act like it. _

_No. _A brief, cocky smirk-why would he be nervous? After all-

_I AM the CIA_.

"Sir?"

Bill's face fell as one of his-that is, the Army's-grunts frowned at him.

"Uh, something wrong?"

"What was that you were saying, about the C-"

"NOTHING!" He shouted, and regretted not keeping coolheaded. God, he must look ridiculous in his cargo pants and windbreaker, surrounded by all these military guys. Damn emergency missions.

"I-I mean, I did not say anything! You know, I just, I was at the agency, and when they showed me the flight plan I wasn't sure what to think because-and I dunno if I've told you guys this already, I'm, haha, kinda big. I mean, big as in-"

Bill had a sinking feeling as he could neither stop talking nor say anything meaningful.

"You took the big job," prompted the soldier-wasn't he a sergeant? What was his name again, Rodriguez?

"-yeah!" Bill threw up his hands, all shaky smiles. _Phew_. "Yeah, that's me. Special Agent Bill Wilson. It's a real feather in my cap, huh?"

"What?"

"I said a, a real-"

"Heard what you said, sir" Sergeant Juan (Bill winced as he realized he never got to ask any of the men their names before they'd filed the flight plan) "just not what you mean by it"

"W-w-well, it's like, like having a feather is, is good on your resume, haha and since I, y'know. I mean, I'm not wearing a cap right now but if I were-and that's not what I mean but. It's just an aphor-well. It's just a saying" he finished weakly.

"Sure" The soldier was looking away; was that a smile? Were they laughing at him?!

Bill deflated inwardly. Even before that fiasco with his wife, his career wasn't what you'd call stable. He'd graduated top of his class out of Westpoint looking to make a difference for his country, and found that after 9/11 his country mostly wanted things to stay the same, no matter how bad they were. Not even the Joker Scandal roused the public in favor of surveillance and national security. So he'd bounced around as a commissioned officer until the top brass reshuffled everyone, and after that he was stuck in the Central Intelligence Agency pushing paperwork. Things were looking up for a while, and Bill looked back fondly on the missions he'd carried out with the speed and precision the likes of which had never been seen before, the IPs traced and networks of spies contacted as America's enemies prepared for the storm that would wipe at the pathetic little thing they called domestic terrorism. Even if there were no conformed kills everyone knew he was the man to watch out for, the rising star, the big guy in charge of their every operation.

He'd seen the dossiers on the insurgent they'd codenamed  
"Batman", of course. Did the man really think he couldn't throw around all those toys and money without someone outing him? Hell, Coleman Reese had been practically begging to tell them everything, gratitude or no. On top of that, the Chinese weren't idiots either-and after the extraction and murder of a Chinese national the White House was in hot water with Beijing over the minor matter of how, exactly, could they possibly conspire with a vigilante and set a precedent for the complete disregard of international law to further what at the time was a purely internal crime investigation. Behind closed doors, both countries' bureaucrats put 2 and 2 together, until the only plausible explanation lay at the doors of Wayne Manner.

The question wasn't one of guilt, any more. The question was how to prosecute the wealthiest man in Gotham without having to shut down Wayne Enterprises, and with it Gotham: America's economic heart. And in the wake of not finding a solution the Chinese were getting awfully frosty with their erstwhile trading partners. It was a bad time to be an American who wasn't a bored billionaire.

After a four year hiatus of elitist vigilantism, an unofficial post was created in order to try to simulate the efficiency of a motivated, independent agent with nigh-unlimited resources. This true patriot would have to undergo multiple background checks and have a solid working career; the CIA would compensate by granting them carte blanche in order to take on high priority missions. On paper, Bill fit the job to a t, and he'd been all too happy to get into the field, take the fight to freedom's enemies.

How wrong he was. How he wished he could've known how far out of depth he was, a glorified desk jockey expected to solve the enigma-swaddled, riddle-wrapped mystery that was the League of Shadows. Bill reeled inwardly as the looming menace of jet lag crashed his sense of equilibrium.

The thrumming of a land cruiser brought Bill back to the present. Thumbs back in his belt, he brightened up as an elderly, cleanshaven man came out to greet him. Dr. Leonid Pavel was getting on in years, but he was still well-preserved. Bill respected the man's meteoric rise in the field of nuclear physics, and after his revelationary presentation at the IEEE Symposium he'd wanted to get him onboard his own department, stat. After detecting League attention towards Pavel, Bill had personally approached the good doctor to provide political asylum, only for the man himself to go into hiding. Bill figured it was all water under the bridge, and hoped he gave off a good impression.

"Dr Pavel" he spoke-and foolishly thought to compare his own achievements with Pavel's, absent mindedly handing a suitcase full of Benjamins to one of the many hired guns this militia seemed to have a surplus of.

"I'm CIA"

Bill could have kicked himself. Putting aside the risk of exposing his special clearance, he must have sounded like an idiot, referring to himself as an entire organization. His confidant smile forced itself, sagging with the weight of too many company doughnuts even as it froze in place.

"He wasn't alone" one of the armed militia escorts spoke. _Great, _Bill thought, _these goddamn kebabs want to haggle_.

Bill laughed nervously, despite his annoyance. Inside, he was a mess of nerves, struggling to predict all the possible security risks a third party could introduce to his mission. He tried for a witty quip at the bedraggled doctor, saying "Uh, you don't get to bring friends".

Leonid seemed to deflate further, staring at him with those dead, soulful eyes. In hindsight, Bill figured going on the run for fear of kidnapping by a mysterious terrorist organization might have had something to do with that.

"They're not my friends"

He regretted ever saying anything. Pavel probably thought he was a fucking tool, rubbing salt in the emotional wounds his friendless background had scarred deep into Pavel's psyche.

_Hey, cheer up man! I'll totally be your best friend! _Was what Agent Wilson wanted to say, but the words froze in his mouth as if ejected into high altitude. Isolated, surrounded by armed men of large bearing, he was endeared with Pavel's resilience under the circumstances. He wanted to reach out a warm hand to him, let him know he wasn't alone, that they were brothers in the vastness of desolation. He wanted to hold the man, like he would his son and daughter, let him know he was here to protect him from the cruel, uncaring world.

But now wasn't the time for camaraderie, dammit. That came later, he had a job to do.

"Don't worry" an aloof voice interjected. "No charge for them"

It was his contact-Barsad. A scraggly bearded, vaguely East European weathered plank of a man. His resigned but calculating brown eyes had frustrated Bill to no end, after an embarrassing interview between the two men wherein Bill's temper led to part of the transcription being censored. They'd caught up with-or at least caught-Pavel. Bill went through the book-standard steps, trying to get as much information as he could from the man-and he offered nothing but hollow promises. Then he'd gone on a short monologue about League this and Shadows that, after which Bill had questioned what the fuck he'd just said to him. The rest of the interview went awfully, with Bill's attempts to haggle crashing in flames.

He'd give the quiet bastard this: He didn't waste time gloating. Smirking disdainfully, Bill asked "And why would I want them?" He glanced over at a trio of hooded men. He couldn't help but gaze enviously at one particularly large individual.

"They work for the mercenary" Barsad replied, his voice lilting as if imitating a Scottish brogue. "The masketta man"

_It's pronounced MASK-ED, kemosabe _was what Bill would have said, if his country wasn't at stake. Even so, he couldn't hide the contempt he held for the potential terrorist as he practically spat out his reply.

"Bane?!" The contact Bill was starting to think of as the "masketta man" nodded, an almost inaudible "aye" leaving his lips like a misfired bullet.

He was a cleverer bastard than he'd given him credit for, Bill realized. He didn't know what his game was, whether he wanted to dispose of some poor schmuck who learned too much or a corpulent dictator who wasn't their friend. But he couldn't afford to let go of potential informants, either. He'd figure out how much they knew, way or another; Bill quickly formulated a plan to interrogate these men on the fly.

Bill regarded his captives with a certain bittersweet envy. By all accounts, the League was both highly trained and unfailingly loyal. They'd never had to cope with the tumultuous upheaval America had gone through lately. Even in defeat, they'd remained illusive to Bill's superiors. He briefly wondered what kind of man was driven to such self sacrifice, and whether he'd go through the same maudlin, intimate scrutiny Bill underwent these past five years in his final moments.

Turning, he said "Get them on board, I'll call it in!"

Minutes later, Bill, the US Army's men, Dr Pavel and the three prisoners were airborne. Bill wanted them to feel insecure, and had them kneel at his feet even as he pulled out a handgun. He was feeling much more confidant, as he held all the aces. He was practically giddy with elation. He'd gotten his prized doctor, and now he was going to do the job he'd trained for all his life. Blasted plane could've been a little quieter, but at least that would further imbalance the captives.

Bill focused on his interrogation training: Feet wide apart, gun up in the air so everyone involved knew he meant business. "THE FLIGHT PLAN I JUST FILED" he shouted "WITH THE AGENCY, LISTS ME, MY MEN, DR PAVEL HERE-BUT ONLY ONE. OF YOU!" He'd wanted to come equipped with the truth serums, case files and other assorted interrogation equipment, but the urgency of this mission necessitated a little improvisation. And Bill always came prepared, even if he wasn't really. He'd get his prey alright, if he had to spend the whole 7 hour flight shouting at these dirty hoodlums.

One of the soldiers looked incredulously at Bill as he gestured with his gun. Decompressurised air whipped at Bill's hair as two men dragged a prisoner to the edge of the opened emergency door.

"FIRST ONE TO TALK" Bill continued "GETS TO STAY ON MY AIRCRAFT!"

Bill rushed to meet the prone man, stumbling over his legs in a feat of overenthusiasm he dearly hoped was overlooked by his colleagues. He positioned himself on top of the man, knee to bum and gun to head. His weapon was cocked and ready, prepared to penetrate the insurgent's tender parts at a moment's notice. Gripping the man's neck, he felt an awesome surge of dominance and patriotic fever.

"WHO PAID YOU TO GRAB DOCTOR PAVEL?!"

The hooded man said nothing, stoically enduring the indignity of Bill's doughy girth. As seconds lengthened, Bill felt his confidence falling yet again, but resolved to take back the initiative. Bill grimaced impotently, remembering the agency could ill afford to relinquish any possible leads on the League. His gun fired-and missed the target's right ear by inches. Hopefully, the hoods would keep the men from knowing he'd fired a blank-although Bill also realized that same blindness prevented them from being intimidated by his stature.

Bill was still fairly secure in the certain anxiety the other prisoners must have been undergoing. "HE DIDN'T FLY SO GOOD!" he announced, hoping his soldiers were just as enthusiastic as they dragged him away. "WHO WANTS TO TRY NEXT?!"

Another man forced to the ground, Bill's concern growing at the men's lack of reaction. "TELL ME ABOUT BANE!" he roared, enduring the blast of slipstream scouring his well moisturized face. "WHY DOES HE WEAR THE MASK?!"

Silence.

Bill spoke without thinking "LOTTA LOYALTY FOR A HIRED GUN!". He didn't even know where he was going with this one; they'd no more evidence to convict the men as mercenaries than as a death cult, private nation or any number of entities. In fact, Bill had been thinking of his reliable handgun as a rock in this crisis. He earnestly hoped the prisoner would appreciate his attempts at making light conversation, and open up with info on the League's leader.

"**Or perhaps he's wondering why someone would shoot a man**" intoned a sonorous voice. "**Before-throwing him out of a plane**" finished the largest captive.

Bill was seriously spooked. That sounded more like something from the head of a ghoul than anything human. A distorted parody of the human voice processed by demonic synthesizers. Tensing up, he turned to the fearsome hulk who seemed to strain at his metal restraints without effort.

He had to turn to look at him. Panic once again visited Bill; his orderly interrogation was once more thrown off balance. He frantically gestured at the soldier restraining the "hired gun"; confused, the man dragged his captive off towards the back of the plane. Struggling to maintain proper procedure, Bill could no longer pretend not to see the doubt and exasperation in his men's eyes as he slowly walked back to face his captive from the front. He was feeling so lightheaded he did a little dance as the door shut, staggering to a halt against one of the seats.

"At least you can talk!" Bill shouted, perhaps louder than he needed to. "Who are you!" He added, more out of frustration than anything.

His captive's body language showed no sign this would be going any easier, exuding hugeness while kneeling, Bill could sense a pervasive aura that spoke of violence and calculation-but most of all _size_. He approached him cautiously. This could be a trap, and he didn't like to think about the brute strength the muscular man might bring to a fight.

"**It doesn't matter who we are**" boomed the big man. "**What matters is our plan!**" Bill could've rolled his eyes, he didn't want a goddamned propaganda spew right now.

His palms were sweaty, knees weak, his arms were heavy, but Bill mustered the resolve to slowly, slowly lift the hood from his face. Even then, his hand paused right before reaching for the dark fabric. Something was off; Bill's years of experience and intuition told him that something much bigger than a simple pickup was transpiring around him. His poker face contorted into concern for the large captive, equal parts curiosity and anticipation. When the cloth was clumsily lifted, nothing could have prepared him for the enormity of this situation.

"**No one cared who I was until I put on the mask" **announced Bane, seemingly unmoved by this confession.

A bald head, paler than any man he'd ever associated with the League. His enigmatic, alien mask was affixed with three straps, two reaching to cover his jaw and meeting around the back of his head with another over the top of his head. But this only belied the predatory intensity of the man's eyes and slim brows. Bill almost lost himself in the sheer focus of that gaze, barely maintaining his composure. He was everything Bill only pretended to be: Supremely, unconsciously confidant and in control of the situation. The distinction between captor and captive, always an uncertain division, started to fray as Bill's professionalism and training went out the window. Drawn by the inescapable, ineffable, inevitable need to approach the majesty that loomed before him, Bill breathed heavily as he contemplated his goliath. This was catharsis. This was his time to show him what a big deal he was. He needed to prove to this man that he was the big deal he held himself up as, to cast aside the windbreaker of pretense and rest his thumbs on the belt of accomplishment

"If I pulled that off, would you die?" he asked, half taunting, half breathless with anticipation.

Unflinchingly, the bald man replied "**It would be extremely painful**"

"You're a big guy" he blurted out, hot and lightheaded.

"**For you**" came his captive's cool reply, his gaze never leaving his own.

And so it was for Bill, wondering if the man intended his statement as a threat to his person, a demonstration of his size or some other painful event in the foreseeable future. The situation was rapidly moving into areas he wasn't comfortable with. Something wasn't right, but his confidence wouldn't let him see past the sweet nectar of success, the feather that would surely fit in his cap. "Was getting caught part of your plan?" he taunted the big man, practically swaggering while kneeling down.

"**OF COURSE!**" he boomed. "**Dr Pavel refused our offer in favor of yours! We had to find out what he told you!**"

He wanted to shut the jolly giant up, but suddenly Dr Pavel blurted out "NOTHING! I said NOTHING!". Yet again, Bill sensed something was amiss-but he wouldn't let himself see beyond the immediate concern of how big his captive was. And his growing concern for Pavel; the bigger man seemed to turn a predatory, dominant gaze on the cowering doctor that made Bill's blood boil with jealousy. The floor beneath him seemed to shake and shudder, and Bill couldn't tell if it was his nerves or an atmospheric disturbance.

"Wait, what?" Bill asked. "Why didn't you just, you know, ask him-"

"**He would not have told us**"

"Well, you do represent a morally questionable terrorist agency-"

"**Him, I need healthy**" explained Bane. "**You present no such problems**"

Bill started laughing nervously, and stopped when no one joined in.

"Well congratulations! You got yourself caught!" Bill shouted hysterically. His head pounding, he thought he heard one of his men-Juan-shout "Sir?!". Now what's the next step of your master plan?!"

For the first time, he saw something other than supreme confidence in his captive's eyes. They grew bigger than ever before, filled with rapture. Bill felt so small staring into them.

"**Crashing this plane**" came Bane's reply.

Everything happened too quickly, as Bill's face fell, his mind having finally connected the doubts only to paralyze itself in shock. Pavel's familiarity with the big guy, his comrades' disinterest in him, the way the masketta man rubbed him the wrong way, Bane's claim that getting caught was part of his plan-the master plan seared itself into Bill's consciousness, but could not match the burning intensity that suffused Bill's entire head. Pavel was but a stooge and a red herring; the only question was why, having him in their clutches, the League of Shadows decided to toy with him like this by presenting him an ephemeral prize they were going to take back anyway. His face fell, barely registering his enormous charge standing and effortlessly snapping his manacles, cheerily shouting "**_WITH NO SURVIVORS!"_**.

Gunfire through an open window, and suddenly the plane was surrounded by masked men shooting at everyone inside. The rush of decompressed air ruffled Bill's lapels, while his men dropped like fish in a winged, aluminum barrel. Suddenly Bane's hands were reaching to strangle him with those very lapels; Bill fought valiantly, unwilling to admit defeat even when it was rather self evident. He summoned up all the honed fighting instincts and techniques he'd trained to perfection as a master of CQC-and it barely held off the big guy's bull rush. There were no opening to exploit, no fancy joint locks or pushing hands-only the sheer brute force and killer's instinct inherent in this massive frame It was as if he was grappling with a rhino in heat, and it took everything he had to keep himself from being suplexed into oblivion.

_NO_, Bill told himself, as the big guy held him off with one hand.

_THIS CAN'T BE HAPPENING! _He wanted to scream as he was punched so hard in the face that his head waggled like a bobblehead, before he collapsed to the floor.

_I'M IN CONTROL HERE! _He raged blindly at an uncaring world, even as the plane began to tilt. Bill's eyes blurred even further with tears of pain and humiliation as he watched his men beat the living shit out of the remaining prisoners. They never had faith in his leadership, they clearly thought this had been a suicide mission the minute he'd taken charge and now instead of trying to help him they were reduced to vengeful, desperate animals trying to take their enemies down with them. Bill wanted them to beat him instead to punish himself for his failure as a leader.

The pilots calling out mayday, mayday. Dr Pavel's wailing. Everything blurred together as the plane itself rotated 180 degrees, sending Bill flailing tonelessly until he hit the front end of the plane, cushioned by one of his men. A second later, another's legs slammed into his torso and everything began fading. The concussion finally began to take its toll.

More and more of his men fell on Bill as he began to drift in and out of consciousness. The blast of explosives as daylight invaded the ruined vehicle along with numerous men in harnesses. Dr Pavel's frightened, childlike cries. And the shadow of the man who had utterly defeated him descending like some fell bird of prey.

When he awoke, Bill could no longer pretend to be big, or even in control of the situation at all. Far above him, his valuable prize Dr Pavel was harnessed unwillingly to Bane, crying out like an abducted toddler. To his left, a young, ruggedly handsome man looked to the sky with a confidant smile on his face, ever loyal to his band of brother even as the world collapsed around him. Bill Wilson wasn't CIA. He wasn't a hero, and he certainly didn't do his job right. He was just a glorified desk jockey, a would-be glory hound who thought he could take on real life supervillains and win-somehow. He only existed to make Bane look ever bigger and badder than the CIA could ever hope to be, and now that he had outlived his purpose he was discarded like a used tissue. If all the world was a stage, he was an extra whose only claim to immortality would be this singular insult to his career, in the grand drama of costumed vigilantism. Nobody would ever care who he was, or remember his death beyond a scant few; he was nothing more than another statistic to his government. All those moments he could have spent with his family, or safe doing paperwork for the agency would be lost in time. Like tears in the rain.

Accepting his fate as a nameless operative, Bill Wilson prepared to die, far away from home.


End file.
